


Endlessly Bitter

by Trin303



Series: Endlessly Yours [5]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, F/M, Meet-Cute, helen wick deserved better, the john wick coffee shop au that no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303
Summary: John Wick likes his coffee bitter, but after meeting the cute barista/owner of Deja Brew, he decides there are some things better left sweet.Part 5 in the Endlessly series (individual one-shots of the endless ways John Wick met Helen)
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Series: Endlessly Yours [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1922308
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

John Wick had his first cup of coffee at eleven, back when he was still known as Jardani. It was barely warm and it was black and it was bitter. He had nearly spit it out, surprised at how it was both watery and gritty and unappealing. 

He did not touch the stuff again until the next year, when he was in New York City, living anything but the American dream. Belarus had been a world of longing. Empty stomachs, empty wallets, empty days and empty nights.

And if Belarus had been empty, America was far too full. Full bellies meant training. Fighting with other boys, being forced to dance for hours on end. Running drugs for the Ruski Roma put money in his pocket. Empty days were filled with training and nights were filled with jobs. 

He had not wanted to touch the stuff again but Jardani had been desperate. Too much to do, too little time. He needed more sleep but it was impossible.

At twelve, coffee became his greatest ally. 

It was still bitter but he did not spit it out. He decided it went down easier when it was hot. Jardani thought he would never truly like it, but he would drink sludge if it kept him awake all night.

When he ran away, coffee was one of the first things he had to give up. Moving from town to town, sneaking rides on trains and tractor trailers, there was no stability. There was little income and what he received for odd jobs was spent on food and second-hand clothing to match his growth spurts.

At sixteen, he raised enough money to get forged documents. He changed his name to John and his legal age to eighteen.

And he joined the Marines.

Four am wake ups after nights with barely any sleep, he rediscovered coffee and realized it was never as horrible as he remembered. It became a ritual, waking up at least twenty minutes before his bunk mates so that he could wake up and prepare a pot of coffee. It was long enough for it to brew and for him to get caffeine pumping through his system.

From that point on, coffee was a daily part of John Wick’s ritual.

It motivated him when he woke up and sustained him through long days.

So when he finally settled down, when he finally bought a house and decided to stop traveling and work primarily out of New York and D.C., he began looking for a coffee shop.

A place with space to do research when he did not want to be home. Some place with coffee that could wake up the dead. Within a mile of his new house, there were three coffee shops. Two were chains, one was independent. 

_ Deja Brew _ it was called, located on a storefront on the main street. It was always busy with a constant line of people rushing in and out. Luckily, they were well staffed and moved quickly and there was almost always at least one table open.

The first time John walked in, he was surprised at the line. It did not look so busy from the outside and he almost left at the thought of waiting seven people back. That, and the specials on the chalkboard did little to interest him. The Shamrock has Irish cream and mint, and a drink called the Reeses is made of milk chocolate and peanut butter. 

Until he caught sight of the woman behind the counter.

Her coffee-colored hair was pulled back into a loose braid, curved over her shoulder and John settled into the line.

It moved quickly and he watched as she danced between taking orders and directing employees and making drinks.

She wasn’t old, nor particularly young. 

She carried herself with authority and grace and a bright smile that made his chest ache.

Her name tag read ‘Helen’ and all he could think was… of course. Helen. From the Greek Helios meaning sun, and she shined just as brightly. The name bestowed upon the most beautiful woman to ever live was honored in her eyes, warm and brown. Coffee with cream.

Helen called out a name and handed off the fresh coffee to a young woman before gracefully turning back to the cash register.

She blinded him with a smile, “Good morning. What can I get for you today?”

“Coffee. Black.”

“Dark roast?” She guessed and he nodded.

“Coming right up. That’ll be 2.09.”

Again, she turned, grabbing a cup as she went. An employee swooped in to collect his money and she filled it with fresh coffee that smelled divine. 

“Here you go.” She told him, “Have a great day.”

And John Wick was shaken to his core.

The coffee wasn’t bad either.

…

He went back the next day. And the next. And the next. Sometimes, he would bring his work or a book. The cafe did sandwiches, too.

And she was always there, behind the counter.

Helen.

He tried not to watch her but it was nearly impossible to look away when she was juggling the entire shop and its customers as easily as that smile rested on her face.

John had never been a man with many desires. For most of his life, coffee was the only thing he craved.

Now, he craved something sweeter.

“Morning, Dark Roast.” She would say as he hit the front of the line. She no longer asked what he wanted. 

“Good morning.” He would say, and then a gruff, “Thank you,” when she handed him his cup.

It became a ritual in itself. 

He would wake up, rush to shower and change into his three-piece, and drive down to  _ Deja Brew _ . He never minded the lines. In fact, he preferred it. Standing in line gave him an excuse to stare ahead and watch her work.

“Good morning, Dark Roast.”

“Good morning.”

He still couldn’t bring himself to say her name aloud. It felt too personal, too intimate. And she deserved better than him.

Helen did not even tell him the price anymore. Each day, he was there with exact change and a substantial tip in the jar. 

“Here you go. Have a great day, Dark Roast.”

“Thank you.”

And he would consume it on his way into the city.

Tuesday’s tended to be slow at the cafe, he noted.

He walked in and found that only one person was waiting in line before him, though nearly all the tables were taken.

“Hey, Dark Roast.” She said, as she prepared coffee for the man in front of him.

“Good morning.”

“Let me guess…” She teased, handing the coffee off, “You want the usual”

“You know me well.” And the banter slips from his mouth as easy as breathing.

Helen rewards him with a smile, “You ever try anything different? Take a walk on the wild side?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

She smirked, “Indulge me, Dark Roast.”

She doesn’t take his order. Instead, she made her way over to the espresso machine. It spurted steam and she bent down below the counter, picking up a dark syrup. She swirled it around the cup, letting it drip down the edges, before she poured in the steamed milk and the espresso shots.

She capped it and walked it over to him, “Try this.”

She could have just as easily asked him to walk into traffic or jump off a bridge and he would have done so  _ gladly _ .

John took a sip of the coffee, schooling his face so as not to look disgusted when he inevitably tastes something sweet. 

But it wasn’t. It was dark and bitter and chocolatey and… good.

The milk softened the flavor but did not take away from the bitterness he craved.

He swallowed the mouthful, fully impressed.

“That’s amazing.” he told her honestly and she beams at him. 

“Dark chocolate syrup with raspberry.” She explained, “I made it last night but I can’t stand the taste. Too bitter for me but I’m trying to expand the menu.”

“It’s phenomenal.” He took another sip, “I was a bit worried.”

“That I’d try to give you something sweet? Relax, Dark Roast. I’m just expanding your horizons, not changing your palate.”

“It’s John.” He was not expecting that to come out of his mouth, but then it was out there. “John Wick.”

Helen smiled and he wanted… everything. He wanted to punch the air. He wanted to scream to the world that she was his. He wanted to run a marathon and do ridiculous things. And he wanted to jump over the counter and kiss her senseless.

Instead, he asked, “How much do I owe you?”

And Helen shook her head, “On the house. Whenever I make you a guinea pig, you drink for free.”

He argued but she would not hear it, so he simply placed a fifty in the tip jar the moment her back turned.

When she turned back, he was halfway to the door and a fresh queue of customers were coming in.

“Goodbye, John.” She called.

He hesitated, glancing back. “Goodbye, Helen.”

And he can’t help but think that things have changed.

Something between them was different and he savored every drop of her experimental coffee with a hint of pride. She had asked  _ him  _ to test it.

The next morning, when John found himself at the back of the long line, he spared a glance to the specials. In chalk, it read:

The Wick-- three shots espresso w/ dark chocolate syrup and hint of raspberry.

John smiled.   



	2. Endlessly Bittersweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all asked for more so here you go.   
> Shoutout to markwatneythespacepirate for inspo

It had been two weeks since Helen released his drink. Two weeks of sipping an actual honest-to-God latte for the first time in his life.

He could picture what those closest to him would say if they could see him now. In the back of the line, patiently waiting for his morning latte with dark chocolate sauce and a hint of fruit. 

Marcus would berate him for putting coffee into his body at all. His closest ally was hard-pressed to put anything not ‘raw’ into his body. Which meant meals, and drinks, with Marcus all consisted of vegetables.

How he got the energy to fight was beyond John, but, then again, Marcus tended to stick to sniping. 

Aurelio would probably check the back of his neck to make sure he hadn’t been body-snatched. Right up until he saw Helen and clicked into place what John was doing. John was certain that the jokes and the teasing would never end.

And Winston… Winston would just shake his head in disappointment and make some comments about John being too smart to let a woman lead him around.

But John was more than happy to be led around, providing that Helen was doing the leading.

“John!” Helen calls and waves him over. There are still a handful of people in front of him but she trades places with one of her baristas. 

He glances around and then moves to the pick-up counter where Helen is. She hands him an iced coffee and John blinks, looking back up at her.

“It’s the iced version of the Wick.” She tells him, “And before you say anything, I made it with cold brew and just a splash of milk, instead of espresso. And I added extra chocolate. It still should be disgustingly bitter.”

John smirks and pokes a straw through the top. 

He has had cold coffee before; when his coffee has lost all heat while he kills or when all that was left in the coffee pot after a long day was acrid and cold. But he had never tried iced coffee. 

It seemed like a drink for the younger crowd. The kids who wore their headphones when walking down busy streets and poured over textbooks for hours on end. It seemed like a drink for the sweet and the innocent. 

He could picture Helen with an iced coffee in her hand, wrapped up in a cashmere sweater with a bright smile painted on her face.

Iced coffee was not for killers. 

But now there was one in his hand. With a straw.

A fucking straw.

He couldn’t remember ever using a straw.

Well, once. In a restaurant. He had wrapped an end around each of his fingers and used it to strangle someone. But he is fairly certain that doesn’t count.

He brings the coffee up and puts the straw between his lips.

It’s colder than he is expecting, even with all the ice. It still tastes bitter, as he likes it, but it is… different. 

“It’s different.” He says aloud.

“Bad different?” She asks. 

John shakes his head and takes another sip. “No. Just… not what I was expecting. It’s good.”

Helen rewards him with a soft smile, “Is it missing anything? I know that iced coffee can be more flavorful because it’s less acidic. Is the ratio with the chocolate still okay?”

“It’s perfect, Helen.” He assures her, taking another sip. “I’ve never had iced coffee before.”

“Ever?” 

He shakes his head, “Not that I can remember.”

“Maybe I’ll convert you. There’s more caffeine in that then the hot one.”

“Really?” 

She nods, “I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s a very strong concentrate. The cold brew takes more than a day to fully mature.” Helen indicates his bag, “You staying today?”

“Yeah, I have some work to do.”

Not a lie. He just did not plan on telling her that he was using her free Wifi to look up information on the man he was about to kill later that evening. 

“I’ll bring you over your usual, too. Thanks for being my guinea pig.”

“Any time.”

And he means that. She could give him one of those crazy drinks that she offered with five pumps of caramel and extra cream and he would drink it with a smile on his face.

John picks the corner table that he prefers. It leaves him with an excellent view of the door and a better view of the counter, where Helen is back to serving. He plugs in his laptop and begins to work. 

He combs through the Continental database looking for information on the building he is going to need to break into. He is surprisingly good at stealth considering his penitent for firearms. 

His weapons are ready, in the trunk of his car, and he plans to drive into the city after closing at Deja Brew. He’ll arrive earlier than he needs but he can always use the time to check out some bookstores in the city before he tries to sneak into a Cartel base. 

John continues reviewing the schematics until Helen walks over, carrying what he presumes is his usual drink.

He closes out of the browser and quickly opens his kindle application.

“Sorry for the wait.” She says setting it down on his table. 

“No worries. I wish you’d let me pay.”

“Not on days where you guinea pig. Besides, you tip more than you pay for coffee every day. Don’t think that I don’t notice.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “You don’t charge much and I appreciate good coffee.”

“I try to keep it affordable and keep my customers happy.” She replies, “What are you working on?”

“I’m re-reading  _ Beowulf.  _ I just received an old handwritten manuscript that needs to be rebound but the thing is a mess. Pages out of order, half-fallen apart.”

“You bind books?” She asks with interest, setting a hand on the seat across from him.

John nods. Both a cover for his life as well as a truth. “Yes. English isn’t my first language, to begin with, and Old English throws me completely. I’m trying to review the text here,” he points at his computer, “so that when I get home later, I can make sure everything is in order before I begin to bind.”

“What was your first language?” 

And she is so sincere in her curiosity that it throws him for a loop. Usually, when people ask him questions, they are gauging. They are looking for weaknesses. For something to use against him.

But not Helen. She is neither afraid of him nor against him.

She is genuinely curious, that kind smile never leaving her face.

“Russian, primarily. I was raised in Belarus with a Roma tribe. It was a strange mixture of Russian, German, Polish, and Ukrainian.”

“That’s amazing! Can you still speak it?”

John nods.

“Will you say something for me? I don’t know anyone who speaks Russian.”

He stares at her eyes. How can eyes be kind, he wonders. But there they are, soft and gentle and kind and he just wants to be lost in them forever.

“Ty samoye prekrasnoye zrelishche, kotoroye ya kogda-libo videl.”

_ You are the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld. _

“Wow. What does that mean?”

John looks down and back up at her, “It means ‘thank you for the wonderful coffee.”

“You are most welcome. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

“I will,” he promises and she turns to go. Back behind the counter, where she is a true wonder.

He resumes his work but cannot help but look up and watch her every so often. She is so graceful with every movement and, in another life, he knew something about grace.

John tried not to think about his time in Belarus or with the Ruska Roma in New York. Belarus had been hell and the journey to New York had not been much better.

Hours of training, wrestling with the other boys in the troop. And they were much bigger than he was. It had taken him years to hit the growth spurt that allowed him to hit just over six feet and, by that time, he had already run away.

And when he hadn’t been wrestling, the Director had pushed him, far more than the others, to dance. To practice on tiptoes until his muscles ached and his feet bled.

But that was a long time ago.

And Helen is far more graceful than he had ever been and far more kind than anyone he had ever known.

Business slows down in the late morning only to speed up twenty minutes later as the lunch rush hits. He considers heading out when the line reaches out the door if only to clear a space for Helen’s patrons but he cannot bring himself to leave just yet.

Even the customers who are in a rush or who are pushy to get their food seem to settle with a smile from her.

It’s a good thing, he decides. 

He’s not sure what he would do if he ever saw a customer be rude to her.

Eventually, it slows again, and John finishes his work. He still has hours before he needs to reach the city so he brings back up the manuscript for  _ Beowulf  _ and continues to try and translate the Middle English into something he can understand.

The older copies are without annotations and numbering of lines, like the copy he reads on his computer.

By two, it is only him left in the coffee shop. Helen sends her morning baristas home early, although John is certain she will pay them for the entire shift.

She tidies up behind the counter, ready in case any patrons should enter for a late coffee.

It is quiet until two-twenty.

John notes the time when a man in a black hoodie, with sunglasses, walks in.

The new customer is awkward and uncomfortable and John gets a bad feeling in his stomach.

He keeps his head turned towards his computer but he keeps his gaze on the counter. 

Helen smiles, unsuspectingly, and John wishes, if only for a moment, that Helen was less kind. More assuming. That she was the kind of person to make a snap judgment that this man was not  _ good _ .

“What can I get for you today?” The man pulls his arm out of his jacket pocket and John resists the urge to swear.

The gun is black and small and compact. A Sig P365. It holds 12+1 which is excessive for a small business robber.

Helen’s face goes white as the robber demands she opens the register.

Four strides, he estimates. Four strides to get to the robber, but then what?

He… he can’t kill someone in front of Helen. He can’t. 

He won’t. If he can avoid it. 

And this guy is an idiot.

John rises to his feet and crosses the room quickly.

He can’t kill someone in front of Helen, he tells himself again. She shouldn’t have to see that. But this man is pointing a gun at her. At  _ Helen _ . He is pointing a gun at  _ Helen _ and John feels true, white and hot and angry rage.

John taps him on the shoulder and the man turns. This man is clearly inexperienced and John hits his wrist with the outside of his hand. The grip on the gun loosens and he grabs the barrel and spins the gun so it is in his hand before bringing it up in a single, flawless movement, and slabbing the but of the gun into the man’s head.

He crumbles to the floor and Helen leans forward against the counter, a small gasp escaping from her lips.

“Oh my god.” She whispers.

“Are you alright?” John asks, kneeling to the ground to make sure the man has no more weapons on him.

Helen nods, swallowing and looking at John with something like amazement. “How did you do that?”

John rises to his feet. “He’s not armed with anything else. Do you have rope anywhere?”

“I, um, I have zip ties in my toolbox. In my office.”

“Can you get it?” John asks and Helen nods, backing away and turning to go to the back.

John turns the man over and pulls his hands behind his back. He is not gentle and he hopes the man’s nose breaks as he drops his face to the floor.

Helen returns a moment later and comes around the counter, handing the zip ties to John. He sets down the gun and binds the man’s hands tightly behind him before doing the same at his ankles.

John stands again and looks Helen over. She is shaking. Before he can ask her, again, if she is okay, she crashes into him, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in his chest.

And this is a hug.

He’s seen it. He knows what it looks like but… just like iced coffee, he is certain he has never had anything quite like this.

John does not know quite what to do but he brings his arms up around her. One on her lower back, the other on her head. 

Her hair is softer than he imagined and it makes him want to lose his hands within it. To pick her up and never let her go.

“It’s okay,” John tells her. “He can’t hurt you.”

She releases a shaky breath, “Thank you.” She loosens her grip and steps back, “How did you know what to do?”

He does not reply, at first, looking down at the man on the ground. “You’re going to want to call the police.”

“R-right.” She says, reaching into her pocket and dialing 9-1-1.

John picks the man up using the bindings at his wrist and drags him over to one of the tables that is screwed into the floor. Using the remaining zip tie, he fastens him to the table post as Helen rattles off the address.

He hears sirens in the distance and hopes that it’s one of the officers he’s already met. He walks back over to the counter once the man is tied up and stands with Helen. She leans into him again and John wraps an arm around her.

Something so foreign has never felt so right.

The door to the shop opens and it is Jimmy and Randy. Both have their guns drawn but they put them away when they see the robber.

“Afternoon John.” Says Jimmy.

“Jimmy.” John greets, “Randy.”

“John.”

Helen looks from John to the officers, her brow furrowed in confusion. 

“I see you had the issue under control.” Jimmy kneels down, lifting the hood to get a look at the man’s face.

“Single robber with a single gun.”

“Playground fun for you.” Randy jokes and John fights the urge to wince.

He clears his throat and motions with his head to the woman at his side. “This is Helen Kingston. She owns the place.”

“Ma’am.” Jimmy greets. “I’ll need to take both your statements.” He looks to John, “What identity do you want this under?”

And John shoots him a look because Helen is  _ right there _ and she is looking at him with confusion and uncertainty and that is not how he wants her to look at him.

But John knows that time is over now. He knows the drill with things like this.

She is a star he could never reach to begin with. It was foolish to forget that, even for an instant.

“Anderson,” John says softly. “Do you have the papers with you so I can do it here?”

“Always keep some on me after that incident down at the reservoir.”

And John wishes that Jimmy would just. stop. talking.

“Um, would you guys like some coffee?” Helen asks and her voice is still a little shaky.

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

“That’s alright.” Says Randy.

She looks up at John expectantly and he immediately knows she needs this. She needs to get behind the counter and make coffee because that is what she is good at. That is what she excels at. That is her happy place, her calm place.

“My usual?” John asks and Helen gratefully nods, hurrying behind the counter as John begins to write out his statement.

He eyes her all the while. The moment she begins to brew the coffee he sees her shoulders relax. 

He gives his statement quickly while Randy writes down Helen’s account as she drips chocolate sauce around the edge of John’s cup.

She comes back around as it is done and hands it to John, who reaches for his wallet.

“Put that away.” She tells him before he can pull it loose. “You just stopped an armed robber in my shop. I think that constitutes free coffee.”

“Thank you,” John says, accepting the coffee and… he cannot help himself, he pushes a loose lock of hair out of her face.

Her beautiful face.

And she is so confused that it makes him sad. He liked it when she thought him just a simple bookbinder. 

Now… she didn’t know what to think.

Jimmy thanks them for their time and thanks John for “making my life easier” and they cut the robber away from the table and drag him out to the cruiser.

John turns to Helen, “are you sure you're okay?"

She gives him a small smile, "Thanks to you." She nods once, "Anderson, huh? Are you a spy?"

John lets out a small laugh and looks down, "Would you be mad if I told you I'm not at liberty to say?"

"Of course you're not." She shakes her head and sighs, "Do you think I could get away with closing early?"

John checks his watch, "It's just twenty minutes. And if anyone says anything, you can just tell them the truth. You were stuck up and gunpoint and now you're going home."

"To drink a bottle of wine."

John smiles, "I think that sounds perfect."

And she smiles. Things have changed but she is still smiling at him, still looking at him with those kind and gentle eyes.

Yes, things have changed.

But maybe that doesn't have to be all bad.

Because sometimes bitter meshes perfectly with sweet.

He reaches out, tentatively, and puts a hand on her neck, weaving his fingers up into her hair.

Helen doesn't pull away.

John bends down and brushes his lips against hers.

They're softer than he imagined but just as sweet.

Her lips part gloriously and she stands on her toes, reaching an arm up and around his neck as she kisses him back. Her tongue brushes his lips and sweeps into his mouth, tangling with his.

Sugar and cream and a sweetness which he has never associated with coffee. Suddenly, he gets it. Like an epiphany.

He will never be anything but a dark and bitter coffee addict but, he decides, that perhaps it is time to make room for some sweetness in his life.

She breaks the kiss, breathlessly, and gazes up at him.

John feels something pounding against his ribs and realizes… oh. That is his heart.

"I should go." He says softly.

Helen nods, her hand unwinding from his neck. Her fingers caress his jaw as she brings it back. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Every day, he thinks, for the rest of his life.


	3. Coffee Addict

The next morning, John feels something strange and heavy in his chest when he wakes. It takes him a while to recognize it as he showers and gets dressed. 

Anxiety.

Fear.

That yesterday, he had fucked up. That he had gone too far. 

Helen had joked about thinking he was a spy. But she had also been scared. Likely in shock after having a gun pointed at her.

But it had been hours now. She would have had time to think about it. To piece together his skills and the police’s reaction to him.

He was afraid that things were going to be different now.

He was terrified that she was going to regret kissing him.

John considers not going but… he can’t. He watched a stranger hold a gun to her and threaten her.  _ His Helen _ .

And even if she hates him now… he can’t stay away. 

So he gets in his car and he drives down, parking at the lot behind the building and makes his way back inside.

“Hey super-spy-man!” One of Helen’s barista’s calls to him as he walks in. There is a short line of only a couple regulars ahead of him and they all glance back at the loud greeting. He forces himself not to wince but to wave a hand in recognition. 

He was going to  _ kill _ Jimmy and Randy for their lack of decorum. Helen had asked if he was a spy and his response, or lack thereof, hadn’t helped.

And of course her staff knew that she had been held at gunpoint. She wouldn't have kept that 

“I have your usual ready.” The barista, Jamie, called and John surpassed the line to get his drink **.** He tries to pay, still feeling a bit guilty for jumping the line but Jamie waves him off. “It’s on me. As a thank you for looking out for the boss lady.”

“Where’s…?”

“She ran to the store. We had Almond Gate this morning.”

John blinks, “I’m not sure what that means.”

Jamie rolls his eyes, “You know, for a super spy, you seem to be easily confused. We ran out of almond milk. A few of the regulars nearly rioted. But then Helen did that thing where she smiles and everyone falls in line.”

And that, John understood.

Helen’s smile could make anyone forget their troubles.

“She shouldn’t be too long. If you… wanted to wait. For Helen.”

Jamie wiggles an eyebrow and John takes his coffee, wordlessly, and goes to sit in the corner of the coffee shop. He pulls a book out of his bag 

It’s a good sign, he decided, that Jamie had reacted positively. Because that means whatever Helen has told them is good.

He wondered if Helen had shared with anyone that he had kissed her. She had thanked him and made him coffee and he had kissed her. 

He hadn’t been able to resist it. She was standing there, looking up at him and he knew that he belonged to her.

He was hers and he would do anything for her.

The door opens and Helen comes in with two insulated grocery bags. She smiles when she spots him but continues to the counter, passing off the grocery bags to one of her other baristas, Eve. They speak for a moment and John tries to pay attention to the book in front of him. 

It’s almost impossible with her so close.

But she wraps up whatever she is saying quickly before turning and crossing the room to John. 

Today, she is wearing a navy blue dress that, by all accounts, is rather modest. It reaches her knees and doesn’t reveal any cleavage. Still, it hugs her curves in a way that makes him swallow.

“Morning John.” She greets, “Can I sit with you?”

“Of course.” He replies when he remembers the words one typically says in response. She slides the chair so that she is sitting next to him rather than across and John feels his heart momentarily stop beating. He clears his throat, “How are you doing today? After everything yesterday.

“I’m doing okay. It definitely frayed my nerves a bit but…” she shrugs a shoulder, “Thanks to you, nothing bad actually happened.”

“Having a gun pointed at you can fray anyone’s nerves.”

“But not yours.”

John doesn’t answer, he just takes a sip of his coffee.

And Helen, to her credit, does not push.

“What are you reading?” 

“The Belkin Tales.”

“In Russian?” She asks, caressing her finger down the spine of the book and the foreign characters there.

“It loses something once translated. Even in other Slavic dialects.”

And  _ why _ , he thinks, does he say that? A ‘yes’ would have been sufficient but, instead, he sounds like some kind of nerdy professor or high class yack.

But Helen doesn’t seem fazed. “Do you speak other dialects?” She asks and she sounds genuine in her interest. Again, it strikes him odd that anyone is interested in his life who isn’t looking for ammunition to use against him.

“I can get by in nearly all the Slavic dialects. As well as a handful of other languages.”

Helen just smiles. He hopes that he hasn’t driven her further down the path of thinking him some sort of spy.

Her hand grazes over the book and reaches out before landing, tentatively, on the outside of his.

“I…” Helen starts, and her voice is soft, “I had a lot to think about last night.”

And John finds his hand turning of its own accord so that it lays face up, Helen’s fingers resting gently on top of them.

He’s been shot and his heartrate had never risen above sixty. But her fingers touching his have his heart beating out of his chest. 

“Did you?” John manages to ask and is far too proud of himself for keeping his voice even.

Helen nods, “I did. Yesterday could have gone very differently if you weren’t here and that forced me to think about some things I’ve been avoiding.”

He is silent, giving her the space to continue.

“You’ve been coming here for months and, in all that time, I can count the number of times we’ve had actual conversations on a single hand. But I like talking to you and I've decided to no longer deny myself things within my reach.”

Her hand turns and John’s follows until their fingers entwine.

And he’s not sure what to make of this or what to do with it because he isn't certain that this is real. That he isn’t dreaming about how soft her hands are or how sweet her speech can be. 

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

John nods, not trusting his voice until he swallows and says, “Okay.”

She rewards him with a smile that, were he not already sitting, would have knocked him on his ass.

Helen releases his hand and grabs a napkin off the table and a pen from her hair. She writes out her number before pushing it to John.

“I need to get back to work. Is six okay?”

Again, he nods in silent wonder.

“Good.” Helen smiles, rising to her feet. She takes a step into his space and lifts his chin with her hand, tilting his lips up, before she bends down and kisses him. Softly and slowly, it makes John’s brain turn to mush.

And it is over far too soon.

She runs a hand along his jaw and turns, returning to work.

Helen tastes vaguely of coffee and John realizes he truly is an addict. 


	4. Sweet Coffee and Apple Muffins

John had always thought relationships were hard. Two people having to communicate and find common ground and connection. It just didn't seem worth the effort, especially in his world.

But Helen made it easy.

They fell quickly into a relationship, complete with shared meals and hand-holding and pillow talk.

He learned that before Helen had coffee, she could barely form a coherent sentence. That she lived in high heels but tripped walking barefoot. That she had a handful of dainty tattoos that included a small daisy on her ankle, a sun on the inside of her middle finger, and a coffee bean just below her ear.

He learned that spring was her favorite season but she adored fall almost as much.

When he offered to take her apple picking, she had thrown her arms around him and kissed him nearly senseless. She made apple fritters and crisp and muffins for the cafe and he was given the privilege of helping and tasting.

That even after she showered, she still smelled vaguely of coffee.

And she had a collection of old books that rivaled his own.

Sometimes he imagined what it would be like to build more shelves in his personal library and mix their collections together the way her dresses and sweaters now hung with his suits.

It was too soon to discuss such things, however. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off.

Not when he had her in his life and, most nights, in his bed.

What was most surprising, however, was her utter contentment in not knowing what he did for a living.

As far as her friends and employees knew, John was an independent contractor. Helen knew there was more to it. Her employees joked around calling him the super-spy but… even though they didn't talk about it, he knew that she knew there was more to it. 

On more than one occasion, he had shown up to dinner or to a date with unexplained cuts or bruises. Helen had said nothing of it but she began carrying around a first aid kit and kept it stocked with butterfly bandages and gauze.

She would assess him then tend to him and then hold him.

And he loved her, wholly and completely.

He loved the way she favored cheap wine and how she fell asleep watching cooking shows. He loved that she insisted on everything she serves either be local or fair trade. He loved the way she lit up when he picked her up off the ground. More than anything, he loved to earn her smile.

Hence why he spent half the morning, after Helen left for work, individually picking daisies at the flower shop down the street before heading to the shop.

He walked in, searching for Helen, but not seeing her behind the counter. So consumed in looking for her, he almost didn't notice the man walking in behind him with a wide, shit-eating grin.

"Hiya, John. Nice flowers."

John blinks, “Aurelio. What are you doing here?”

“Always notice you’re carrying the to-go cups from here. Figured I’d give it a try since you favor the joint so much. Now I’m wondering if it’s the coffee that’s bringing you here.”

He isn’t quite sure what to say to that but he isn’t able to say much because that’s when Aurelio spots it. The special board.

“What the hell is  _ the Wick _ ? John, do you have a coffee named after you?” Aurelio doesn’t leave him time to answer, narrowing his eyes and reading off, “Latte with dark chocolate and raspberry? Raspberry, John?”

John opens his mouth to respond just as Eve calls out loudly.

“Coffee’s ready, Super Spy.”

And John wishes he had been ten minutes earlier or ten minutes later and that Aurelio was not witnessing this.

Instead, John skips the line and grabs his coffee as Aurelio calls, “Super spy?”

John shoots him a look as he takes his coffee.

Eve sees the flowers and makes a loud, “Awww. Boss lady is out back dealing with a shipment. Let me go grab her.”

“If she’s busy, I’ll just put them in her office,” John says quickly.

“Nonsense! You know she’d want to see you.” And Eve disappears behind the counter.

John makes his way to the side so Jamie can finish taking the orders of the short queue and Aurelio steps out of line to follow him.

“What the hell is this place?” Aurelio asks, “Super spy?”

“I will give you a hundred coins if you leave right now and never mention this again.”

“Not on your life,” Aurelio says, completely in awe. He pulls out his cell phone and quickly snaps a shot of John with coffee and flowers.

“What the hell?” John hisses.

“I need photographic evidence of what is happening right now.”

“You don’t need shit.”

“I need an explanation.” Aurelio fires back, “I never see you without a coffee cup from this place so I decide to give it a try and find you here with flowers and a drink named after you? John, please, I will give you six new cars if you tell me what’s going on?”

And John is saved from needing to say anything as the door to the kitchen opens and Helen comes out.

Her dress today is a pale pink with sleeves that extend just to her elbow. Hours ago, it had been hiked up over her hips as he took her in the hallway before she left for work. Her hair is, as usual, held up by a pencil in a loose bun.

“Hi baby.” She greets, coming around the counter. Helen reaches up and wraps an arm around his neck and stands on her tiptoes to give him a kiss.

John hands her the flowers which she takes with a beaming smile and plants a kiss on his cheek. 

“You spoil me.” She says as John wraps an arm around her back. He is aware of Aurelio and the expressions his old ally is making but he has no idea what to say.

“And make the rest of us look bad,” Jamie calls over from where he’s making espresso. “I swear, Helen, we should get hazard pay for having to watch the two of you make eyes at each other all day. It’s so sweet, I swear it could make me sick.”

“I’ll take them being mushy over the months and months of pining any day.” Eve adds, “that was so much worse.”

And Aurelio is never going to let him live this down.

As he thinks it, Aurelio steps forward and offers a hand to Helen, “Hi, I’m John’s old friend Aurelio.”

And John could kill him. He had a lot of respect for Aurelio. He liked the man. He trusted the man, as much as he trusted anyone. But Aurelio finding Deja Brew might have been the worst thing that has ever happened to him, John muses. That includes dozens of stab wounds, gunshots, homeless years, and every other shitty thing that he has gone through.

Helen, being Helen, smiles and takes his hand, unwrapping her right arm from around John to shake Aurelio’s hand, and the removal of her touch is enough to make John want to stab the mechanic.

But he doesn’t and he keeps his grip on Helen as she reaches forward.

“Hi, Aurelio. I’m Helen.”

“An absolute pleasure to meet you, Helen.” He looks over at Jamie, “And I would love to hear more about these months and months of pining.”

Helen rolls her eyes, “It wasn’t that bad--”

“Wasn’t that bad?” Jamie says, leaning forward, “I swear to Christ, man, John came in for  _ months _ before they started talking and we had to deal with months of them just staring at each other over the counters. Making eyes every damn day while Mister Tall, dark roast, and handsome would just--”

“I’m sorry,” Aurelio is grinning like a mad man. “Tall, dark roast, and handsome?”

“It’s one of the few nicknames for John that boss lady hasn’t vetoed. Other forbidden options included sugarless daddy,...”

“Jamie,” Helen warns.

“Aaaand, she signs my checks so I’m going to stop. But the magical day came when Helen got held up at gunpoint and John  _ finally _ made a move so now life is good.”

John wonders if it’s possible to erase Aurelio’s mind of the past hour. Doc probably had some good meds somewhere that could do the trick. Or a bad concussion. Maybe an entire bottle of bourbon…

Aurelio looks like he’s about to say  _ something _ and John can’t risk him saying anything. Quickly, he jumps in, “Weren’t you going to order a coffee, Aurelio?”

“I was.” Aurelio nods with a smile, “I was thinking about trying the Wick.”

Or maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to kill Aurelio. Sure, it was hard to find an honest mechanic but he’d gladly overpay for maintenance the rest of his life so long as he didn’t have to deal with  _ this _ .

“Eve,” Helen says, “Get Aurelio a Wick and an apple muffin.” She turns to Aurelio with a smile, “John and I made the muffins on Saturday.”

And 聁urelio is  _ beaming _ , utterly delighted at the image of John Wick baking.

“Did you wear an apron?” Aurelio asks John, who promptly responds:

“I will kill you.”

Helen taps him on the chest, “Be nice!”

And he can’t deny her anything, even if it means playing nice with his asshole of a friend. Even as his friend is pushing every ounce of patience that John has to its limit.

Helen looks up at John, “I need to go finish moving the boxes into the deep freeze, but I’ll be out in just a few minutes.”

“I can help.”

“No, go sit down with your friend. It shouldn’t be more than five minutes.”

She reaches up and gives him a soft kiss that, even a month later, has his head reeling. And she turns back to the back, carrying her bouquet of daisies. 

“Wow,” Aurelio says.

John turns and walks to his usual table in the back. He sits down, coffee in hand, and Aurelio follows, taking the seat across from him.

“So, that’s your girl? She’s sweet.”

“She is.” John agrees.

“Not what I pictured you going for.”

“Oh?”

Aurelio shakes his head, “I always pictured you for the femme fatale type.”

And John snorts. Because there is nothing to say to that. Bad girls had never been his thing. He had too much in common with them, too many of the same weaknesses. But then, good girls had never been his thing either. Because he was far too different from them.

Helen was as good as it got and she probably certainly fell towards the good girl end of the spectrum, but she was so much more than that. She was kind and sparing in her judgment. She was sweet but not weak. 

Not too long ago, a fight nearly broke out in her shop when two patrons had each claimed that the other pushed them in line. There was some shoving and John was ready to stand up and interfere when Helen had marched in, got between them, and  _ smiled _ .

He had never seen anything like her kindness but all it took was a smile and they were apologizing to one another and the rest of the patrons.

“I take it I’m wrong?” Aurelio says at John’s reaction.

John says nothing, noting that Eve is making her way around the counter with a cup of coffee and a small plate with a muffin. He waits until she drops it off and says a quick thank you to her.

“No problem, super spy.”

“Yes.” John says when Eve is back behind the counter, “You’re wrong.”

Aurelio nods, carefully, a smile on his face as he does so, “I gotta say, her staff are killing me with these nicknames. Sugarless Daddy? Super spy?”

“The latter came from the day Jamie referred to. It was just before closing and Helen and I were alone in the shop. Someone came in, with a gun, to rob her and I… interfered.”

“Meaning he’s six-feet-under?”

“He is now.”

Because, no, John hadn’t been willing to kill in front of Helen. She didn’t need to see that or experience that side of him. But he was going to be damned to let that man walk around after he made bail.

John had followed him home and used the man’s own gun to shoot him. The gun he had threatened Helen with after it was conveniently misfiled by Jimmy.

Of course, Helen did not know. Nor did he have any intention of telling her.

Aurelio nods and takes a bite of his apple muffin, “Damn, man! You made this?”

John shrugs, “I helped.”

Meaning he did exactly what Helen told him to do as they slowly turned his kitchen into Armageddon. He had been in war zones less chaotic than a kitchen when Helen was baking. 

He also found out that flour was not as easy to remove from hair as he had thought.

And that… he loved that about her. He loved that she was dominating in the kitchen and that, when he got in her way, she used her ingredients as projectiles.

He loved that she spiked her coffee with Irish cream and her apple cider with bourbon on days when she didn’t work.

He loved that he now had six kinds of coffee in his kitchen and Helen would randomly spit out facts about their origin or the process used to roast the beans.

He loved that she made him taste everything while looking at him to gauge for any and every reaction.

And he couldn’t lose any of it.

Not the slowly growing pile of heels in his bedroom or the vast amounts of sugar that now resided in his kitchen cabinets. 

Not Helen falling asleep on him watching ridiculous cooking shows or waking up with her completely tangled around him.

“You can’t tell anyone about her, Aurelio, I’m serious. I want to keep Helen as far away from that world as I can.”

“From our world, you mean? You live in that world, John. How do you expect to keep her away from it?”

“I exist in the underworld when I’m there. And when I’m not, I’m here.”

“You can’t walk in two worlds, John.”

He can’t leave the underworld but he would die before he left Helen.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” John says quietly. “I’m not letting her go. And I have to keep her safe, which means that you can’t go telling  _ anyone _ about this. About her.”

Aurelio shifts uncomfortably. “It might be a little late for that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I already sent Marcus a picture of the drink board special and of you holding daisies, John.”

Of course, he had. 

That meant that Aurelio knew about Helen and Marcus would soon guess that John had a woman. That John Wick, a man often compared to a priest for his lengths of celibacy, had fallen hard for a woman beyond his reach.

Helen emerges from the back at that moment and walks to the back. There are no extra chairs but Helen simply chose to perch herself on John’s lap, leaning against the back wall. She wraps an arm around his shoulders and gives him a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“All good?” John asks and she nods, her fingers rubbing his neck gently.

John relaxes under her touch and inhales the scent of sweet coffee.

And just like that, he is home.


End file.
